


Lalochezia and Other Pitiful Things

by 100xGrounder



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murphamy - Freeform, Suicide Attempt, The 100 - Freeform, warning: sad story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100xGrounder/pseuds/100xGrounder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy finds Murphy cast out to sea in a little rowboat, bleeding to death. Will he rescue him or leave him to undergo the circumstances of justice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lalochezia and Other Pitiful Things

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Super sad, kinda gory, suicide warning and vivid cursing.

Chapter One:  
A small piece of the sky glistens through the branches of the trees and onto John’s skin.  
He trudges through the wet sand, his lungs feel as though they used to belong to a ninety-nine year-old sloth in a previous life. The voice inside his head repeats it’s instructions until John has arrived at his destination.  
He can see the beautiful reflection of sun skipping across the water’s surface. More importantly, he can see the old, wooden boat floating between sand, water and sky. The boat that would take him out of this life and bring him home.  
He boarded the creaky, aged collection of wood and nails and set off without so much as a look back. The day had been shitty enough, if this stupid boat fails him he might murder someone.  
Again, that is.  
He can imagine Jaha’s deep voice trying to convince him to calm down and turn around. That’s just what Jaha’d do, turn around and try again. He’s a leader, a survivor. He’ll succeed at anything thrown at him. John, though? He’s always been a failure. A disappointment. The kid everyone wants dead. And if hanging him, banishing him, beating him, and overall the entire camp hating him wasn’t enough; hope was. In the end, hope is always what kills us.  
He hoped for a better life, he hoped for a chance at survival, he hoped for someone to, maybe, trust him, one day. He’s still known as a criminal, though. Nothing will ever change that for him. His mistakes will haunt him for the rest of his life.  
His grip on the paddle tightened at the memory of the previous events that day. Waking up to Chancellor Kane, staring down at you, accusing you of theft, murder and treason isn’t the most welcome morning call, let alone being lashed in front of an audience of hundreds and being, once again, banished, forever.  
He’d like to someday be known as a great man, an adventurer, a ruler. For now he’ll just have to settle with being the guy who set off to sea and never returned.  
After what seems like ages, paddling, he stops, in the middle of an enormous river, miles long. His eyes are teary as his fingers graze past the blade in his hands, assuring himself for the thousandth time that yes, this is what he wants. _He wants to die. He wants to die. He wants to die._ Lacking the courage to press down, he drags the knife over his wrist. Why does it have to be so damn hard? Just cut. He tells himself. You’ll be dead within a couple of minutes, floating in a much-flawed and badly constructed rowboat, out where no one will ever find you.  
Although, that was what scared him the most. No one ever finding him, everyone forgetting him like he was just a mere resident at Camp Jaha, nothing more, nothing less. But here it goes . . .  
He gasps at how much it actually hurts. His blood, thick as red paint, spills out into the boat as he forces the knife into his skin and drags it along his wrist.  
“Son of a bitch!” He clasps his right hand down on his wrist, tightly, wishing for the pain to go away. He’s been cut so many times, beaten and bruised. He can’t understand why this time aches the worst. The burning sting is like lava being poured over him.  
But suddenly, he hears something, far off in the distance. Like colossal waves floundering on top of one another. Splish, splash, splish, splash. A boat?  
He whips his head around in panic and finds someone has followed him from camp, into the jungle, across the beach and all the way out here. The wind blows John’s hair in his eyes, his blood-incrusted jacket ripples in the breeze. His first reaction is to paddle away as fast as he can. But hope, once again, stops him. Hope for a savior, hope for sympathy before his departure, hope for one last hope before all the letters and sounds that make up the small word disappear from his mind and nothing of him is left. Only when the boat is a mere 10 feet away, can he tell who’s been following him.  
Bellamy Blake.  
His breath is short and his brain is whirling around inside his skull. He just wants to lie down, but the shame and weakness continue to spill forth from his wrist. He manages to cover his entire hand with his jacket sleeve before Bellamy can notice what he’s done to himself.  
“Murphy, where the hell are you going?” He asks, vigorously trying to catch up to him.  
“Fuck off, Bellamy,” John shouts, avoiding eye contact with him. It isn’t long, though, before Bellamy sees the crimson stains coursing along the edge of the boat.  
“You’re bleeding.” He mutters, positioning his own boat near him, curiously.  
“I said ‘Leave me alone!’” John reaches for the paddle to escape Bellamy’s torment, but before he has the chance, Bellamy grabs his arm, yanks it toward him and thus, finds the scars. Every single scar, different sizes, severities and designs. Some words and symbols, others artless slashes and scrapes. Some are recent, some are months, even years old. His eyes land on one very deep, very miserable gash, it’s new and draining the life from John’s face. Words fail him. Is he surprised? No. Sorry is the word he might’ve used. Regretful. Guilty, knowing he must've been a part of John’s decision to hurt himself.  
“Get the hell off me!” John barks at him, trying to hold back his anxious tears.  
The distressed Blake climbs into the boat with him, pulls his jacket off and frantically interlaces it around the source of bloodstream, pressing down as hard as he can.  
John doesn’t stop him.  
“Murphy,” he says, shocked. “I- I don’t . . . ” The boat rocks in acknowledgment of one too many passengers. “It’s going to . . . to be okay.” He says, barely able to speak as he realizes John’s plan was to die out here. Alone. Where no one would ever discover his drained, lifeless body. What’s even worse is the look on his face; fear, desperation, loneliness. “What happened?” John looks up from Bellamy’s shaking, hands clamped around his wrist.  
“What happened?” He repeats. “For fuck’s sake, Bellamy, what do you think happened!?” He mutters the words into the air as his throat tightens. “I was locked up in a metal cage for FOUR YEARS after being forced to watch my father get floated and my mother drink herself to death. Then I was launched down onto this damn planet, to get killed by radiation poisoning! No one cared, no one still cares. They say we’ve all been given a second chance; all but me . . . Everyone still thinks of me as a criminal. A waste of oxygen . . . A fucking mistake.” He hardly whispers the last few syllables. “So don’t act like you don’t know what the hell happened, alright?” A deep breath. “Just don’t.”  
He swears he’d rather be killed a thousand times over than be seen by Bellamy as a weak and teary-eyed crybaby. He yanks his arm away from him and starts slashing, cut after cut, desperate for anything-ANYTHING-to end his pain. Bellamy tries to stop him with no success.  
“Just let me!” John shouts. “Let me die, leave me to die. Just get the hell away from me! Just- Please-”  
“Stop it!” Bellamy yells, ripping the knife from John’s hands and throwing it into the lake. “Stop it!” He repeats. “You’re not a mistake. You’re not a waste of air. I- I get it, you’ve been through hell and back. But you’re not pointless, okay? You’re not. You, out of all of us, should know that there’s a purpose for everything. Hell, your stronger than any of us! You’ve survived a lifetime of torment and madness,” he pauses to wipe away a tear streaming down John’s face. “And I’m sorry, Murph. I’m so so sorry I failed you. I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve tried to help, instead I just,” His wandering eyes land on a soft, pinkish colored scar residing on John’s forearm. It’s barely there, almost healed, but it catches his attention. He doesn’t know why, he finds himself staring at it. A scribble monster. A collection of understood pain. It doesn’t look different from the remainder of scars. Until he makes sense of the previously meaningless and haphazardly placed lines. He steels himself, unable to finish speaking.

BELLAMY. It reads.

 

TBC.


End file.
